|Ice going out on the pond near my house.|
“To think to know the country and not know
The hillside on the day the sun lets go
Ten million silver lizards out of snow!”
from Robert Frost’s A Hillside Thaw.
The geese aren’t flying in formation, instead their vees are raggedy; geese in disarray, raucously joyful. They’re only headed as far north as the muddy cornfields, the river, the ice-crinkled edges of the pond. They come trailing warmth on their wings, pulling summer behind them on their way to Canada. Not long now, they say; I can read their writing against the gray and weeping sky.
Songbirds, too, are part of the great awakening, and the bright green spears of daffodil and crocus. What snow remains is spellbound, unable to leave without April’s permission. A word from her and it will change into a rush of silver lizards, as undisciplined in flight as the raucous, joyous geese. I read Robert Frost and wait.